My Proteus

I floated on saccharine honey comb
Mistress of stinging bees
Being slowly inwardly torn
By airwaves penetrating old sycamore trees

My mother with saffron olive tree skin
Said my protean king would move like the waves
Emerging from morose modern din
A good man does all bees save

I spun men’s limbs around like a fortune wheel
Somewhere on the zodiac he must be
Some water-weaver knows what my bees feel
he will stop morphing his ways for me

One will let me hold his heel you shall sea.

I left Calypso-the Echoes were too deafening.
Maybe this one will
salvage my hive
bring my honey alive

The Desert Woman only knows the passion of the Sandstorm:

Her brown arms engulf you
Smothering warm symphonic covering
Spicy fire lymphonic night breeze
Roaring still everlastquick soaring
Breath
Lashes layering longing looks toward dunes

On which she lays her arching petrol back
Hiding the grains of sand holding her up no
beating sun above her can see

See, the Desert Woman’s love is Like This:

She shall dance on the sand and
Let her feet sink deep so deep down in and
Tiny grains of rock may hold keep drag slender fire down but

Only about as long as a sandstorm.

And when her brown toes kick away from you you’re

Sliding tumble wonderingly losing
Stepping never dually missing
Beating sol-ace foolishly believing
Grains
(so sorry, seemingly splendorous statue covering her)

The Desert Woman never steps on the same sand twice-
She has a drought and you bring a sandstorm?

It is like this.

lean in and i shall
tell you a grand secret of
the velvet heavens:

Lovers hang from stars
on silken spider threads. their
sensual trembles

upon the thought of
their beloved causes night’s
twinkles- not Science.

for twinkles shant halt
for lovers shall always hang
from a noose of silk

Iran

I used to lie on sunbaked roofs
And cry with yearning
And play music that
begged for rain.
Once I(return from my flirtation with purity and insanity)feel the rain again, I frantically inhale cigarettes
And weep openly for the desert.

Rain:

Tonight, I could go
Outside with my plastic cup
And fill it with rain

My heart cracks open
Like an egg when rain falls
Only, I hate eggs.

Tiny drizzles greet my upturned face
And I send a nod for this gesture
Until I realize God is crying.

A Limerick (In Spirit)

Natural Selection

On a blistering frying summer day
Mrs. Adam rode her own crimson wave

But thought she’d sneak in for a quick dip
Not even the pool would notice the trip

Down to the marble bottom she dove
As chlorine flecks like fish would float

Only when she came up and rubbed her eyes
Did she look around and realize…

The sun wasn’t only turning her skin red-
She saw her own blood tsunami up ahead

And from embarrassment did she drop dead!

Published En Memoriam; Written on The Front Lines.

Christian’s Snores:

Sometimes, as you sleep
Your breath punishes the air
Whipping what feeds you

Other nights, sweet boy
Breaths languish up from your chest
Air falls like feathers.

Sleep (or lack thereof):
Can’t you see you’re killing him?
Please, stay close awhile

Sometimes I think that
He’s been drunk for so long
Happy makes no sense

If only he knew
He’s an opportunity
to write about grief

He should be more than
A muse to a woman-child
Writing about men.

P.D.E., My Favorite Junky.

Maybe your hide your heart (you hide the best you can).

But I know
How your rough hands belong to squarely
Solidly delicate wrists
How you tremble in your sleep
How your eyes (those broken beer bottle green eyes)
Widen
How you smile with tiny tic-tac teeth
How you fear ghosts and your old life
(skid row demons still haunt you)
How thick ropes of veins twist along your arms
(an intricate maze you followed with a needle)
that you miss your baby brother and miss
being a child
that you grew up too fast
yet you tote the heart of a small scared boy
how you rarely eat
yet when you do, it is consumed slowly bit by bit
yet when you pass flowers, you stuff pedals in your mouth
How you entertain an endless procession of regrets and remorse
On the cracked cinema screen in your mind
How your face stays blank in meetings
Yet internally you are in crashing ripping uproar
How you judge your insides by the world’s outsides
And find yourself lacking- and all of us, too
How your writing is angular and jagged
(a most awkward print)
And how you observe the world, green eyes
Taking constant notes and calculations
How your world is scary wonderful fantasy all your own
How you love new socks and too-big shoes and showers and cleanliness
You like things clean. All things but you.
How you lived on the streets among the
Broken and painful and desperate
And dying
And dead.
And you never felt more at home.
What your voice sounds like, how you don’t mind
What Dylan sounds like upon your lips
How you speak Spanish and look like without clothes and with your eyes closed and mouth open
How you work hours on your feet, go home to blank walls and late nights,
Then go home to that insane asylum,
And never think of me.